hollow moon
by bananajelly
Summary: In another life, he could have been the savior. Scattered glimpses into the mind of Luke Castellan.
1. Chapter 1

He doesn't think heroes are supposed to feel like this, ever. He feels small. Exposed. Weak. His skin is raw, mottled with bruises and scabbed-over cuts, and his hair is stiff with a crust of dried blood. He wants to lay his head down and rest. He wants to sleep, and maybe to lose himself in that inviting warmth, to not wake up for a long, long time. Gods, he's so, so tired.

But there are things keeping him tethered to this life on the run, things that are worth more to him than his own life. He looks at the two figures curled on the ground beside him. Thalia's sleeping on her back, her chest rising and falling slowly, rhythmically. He can't get over how much younger she looks without the fierce expression, the narrowed eyes and pursed lips. He tries to save this image. He traces the delicate ski-slope of her nose, takes in the scattered freckles on her pale skin.

Beside her, nuzzling into the crook of her arm, is Annabeth's tiny form, obscured by the too-big flannel shirt and halo of blonde curls. _Gods_ , Luke thinks, _keep them safe. I'll take the blows. They can hurt me, kill me, whatever. But don't let the monsters touch them. Please._ He smiles to himself when he thinks of what Thalia would say if she could hear his thoughts – _Really, Luke? I can take care of myself, you know._ He doesn't like asking the gods for anything. Still, anything that might keep them safe, anything that might give them a place to sleep for a night, will always be worth it.

Anything to keep his family safe. Anything to keep them together.


	2. Chapter 2

` He's faced down monsters with nothing but a metal rod in his hands, yet somehow stealing from a gas station mini-mart sets him on edge. _Only the bare essentials,_ he reminds himself – bottled water, cup noodles, three bags of trail mix, four boxes of band-aids, and a Snickers bar for Annabeth. _Annabeth_. He hates that she has to have a role in this, distracting the shopkeeper with teary gray eyes and a pleading request to find her lost stuffed bear.

Face burning, he stuffs the stolen goods deeper into his backpack and makes a beeline for the exit. He sees Annabeth out of the corner of his eye, sniffling and wiping at her eyes while the shopkeeper asks her where her parents are.

Thalia's waiting for him just across the street, pacing back and forth next to a traffic light. When she sees him and waves, he tries to forget the tug of guilt in his stomach and holds up his backpack. "Success!" he calls, shaking it so she can see.

"Did you get the kind I like?" Thalia asks, snatching the backpack from him and leafing through it. He grins – despite his nervousness, he'd remembered to get her the trail mix without any raisins. Thalia hates the taste of raisins. Luke doesn't remember exactly when he learned this fact, but he did at some point. She pulls out a bag and checks its contents. "Oh, _score_!"

Before he can reply, Annabeth's darting towards them, taking her place by his side. She smiles widely and asks, "Did I do good, Luke?"

"You did great, kiddo," he says, ruffling her hair. She beams up at him. Looking down at her big gray eyes, the feeling returns in full force. He wants to yell at himself to stop being an idiot. They've done nothing wrong, only taken what they needed, but… still. He hadn't wanted Annabeth to get involved. He'd wanted Thalia to come with him, but they both knew that would've looked too suspicious. A girl like Thalia didn't just look like trouble – she radiated it.

Later, when they've holed up in a quiet corner of a public park, eating trail mix and drinking water while the sun sets, Thalia waits for Annabeth to fall asleep before she speaks up.

"Look, I know what you've been thinking, Luke."

He grunts. "You do not."

Thalia's not smiling, but her eyes are light. "You're too easy to read, you know that?" She inches closer to him, and her expression shifts into something more serious as she turns away from him. "I don't like it either. But we made this decision when we brought her in, Luke. You can't teach a seven-year-old the best way to cut off a head and then try to keep her out of everything else we have to do."

For a moment, he wants to object, but it's Thalia, and there's no point in trying. He sighs. "I know. I just… don't want her to get hurt, is all."

She keeps her gaze fixed in the distance. "She won't. But we can't baby her either."

He thinks about her words, swallows them down, lets them crystallize in the pit of his stomach. It's harder than it should be. All he wants is to protect his family, but sometimes… maybe that means stepping back. It's an uneasy thought, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he doesn't try to push it away.

"You're right."

"I usually am. Now, I'll take first watch. You get some sleep."

For the first time in a long time, he sleeps till dawn, and Thalia doesn't wake him.


	3. Chapter 3

"I did _everything!_ " he spits. He wishes he could hear his voice rebound, echoing raggedly in his ears, a validation of the weakest order. If Annabeth could see him now, she would be cowering.

" _Everything_ that you asked – and what do I get?"

" _Nothing!_ I get _nothing._ I get _this_." He brings his hand up to the bandage covering his face. Underneath the thin covering is proof of his quest: the clean red slice of Ladon's claw through his skin. Like a ragdoll pulled apart at the seams. It had been so easy.

There is silence in the night. The trees cast their whispering aspersions.

"So I failed!" a wicked-edged laugh spills from his throat, and he throws his hands into the air. He wants someone to see him now. If they try to stop him, even better. "I _failed_ , guess I'm not fit to be your little windup soldier, huh, dad?" Each word is a shard of glass and the roof of his mouth is only soft flesh.

Is he listening? Is he there? Ichor or not, he wants to see his father bleed. Still Luke cannot forget the aroma of the golden apples. Seventeen years leading to this, a one-man standoff in the infuriatingly placid night. Seventeen years tracing the path to a failed quest. _Youfailedyoufailedyoufailed. You. Failed._

He slams his fist at the trunk of a towering oak, relishes in the splinter of wood underneath his bare knuckles. Demigods should be resilient. They should be mindless. They are soldiers, born to the flame and sacrificed to it, the red fire that keeps Olympus burning bright in the metropolis. He does not want to be tinder.


End file.
